


An Exercise in Restraint

by JacquelineHyde



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacquelineHyde/pseuds/JacquelineHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It can only be a fine thing, Ned thinks, to find that he desires this new wife of his above other women, but to have so little control over himself that he can scarcely keep away from her for more than a few nights is a poor thing indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Exercise in Restraint

**Author's Note:**

> For the asoiaf kink meme prompt: Ned, newly returned from Robert's Rebellion, struggles to keep himself from going to his wife's chambers every fifteen minutes. (Hey, he may be honorable Lord Stark, but he's also a 20-year-old man) Cat can appear or not; I just find the idea of Ned struggling with self-control really entertaining.

For the fourth time this evening, Ned walks quickly and purposefully away from the door of his wife's chambers.   
  
For the fourth time, he reminds himself sternly that it is very late, that she is likely tired, that he has been to see her two evenings already this week though the week has barely begun, and that he cannot reasonably expect her to welcome him gladly again tonight.  
  
And for the fifth time this evening, he finds himself drawn back towards her door as though by some unknown force.  
  
 _Unknown_ , he thinks with a self-deprecating snort. He knows well enough what  _force_  it is that leaves him hard and aching nearly every morning and often during the nights when he wakes from dreams of river blue eyes darkening with pleasure, masses of bright sweet-smelling auburn that tangle on the pillow, the breathy little sounds she makes when he runs his hands and mouth over that soft white skin.  
  
It is the same  _force_  that reminds him, in a voice that sounds something like Father, that Lady Catelyn is his wife now, a good wife, and a good woman, unlikely to refuse him her bed and refuse her duty.  
  
The thought of having her when she is unwilling, merely doing her duty because she has no choice, turns Ned's stomach. The reality is in their far too recent past, that first fortnight after her arrival in Winterfell, when she could barely look at him without visible anger, and he would have gladly granted her time before coming to her bed, had she not flatly refused to accept that small kindness.  
  
While she received him civilly enough even on those nights, he could feel her grow tense at every touch. He is certain, too, that there were tears on her cheeks that first night, when she fell asleep nearly before he could climb from her bed, exhausted as she was from travel and a strange new home and arriving to find him waiting with another woman's child. Perhaps not, though. Perhaps he merely dreamed them.  
  
Clearly, she is as determined as he is to make this new family of theirs a happy one, for it was not long before her manner when she spoke to him during the days began to thaw from icy courtesy to something pleasant, if not particularly warm.   
  
It was this small change, and despite the effort he could see that it sometimes cost her, it gave him the courage at nights to seek out the places on her body that make her melt into his touch, rather than stiffly endure it.  
  
But simply because she does not dislike lying with him hardly makes it appropriate for him to go to her as often as he has recently, in itself much less often than certain parts of him would have it.  
  
She is his lady wife, to be honoured and respected as the Lady of Winterfell, the mother of his heir, someday the mother of many more if they are so blessed. She is not to be tumbled in his bed, or hers, or on the desk in his solar, or any other available flat surface, whenever he takes a notion.  
  
He can nearly hear Brandon laughing, knows exactly what he would say.  
  
 _It is exactly what she is for, brother, unless you think that she would have you tumble some other girl instead._  
  
He does not think that she would, can imagine her expression of grim, unsurprised acceptance should he do such a thing, for he imagines that it is difficult to hold his fidelity in terribly high regard when nearly his first act as her husband was to present her with a child whose presence would speak rather loudly against its existence.  
  
In truth, even if he had it in him to further dishonour himself, to further dishonour her, just when she has begun to warm to him in ways that make him look to the future with anticipation, he finds that the idea holds little appeal.  
  
Increasingly as he comes to know small things about her, the way she looks when she is laughing too hard to breathe, the way she sounds when she comes apart in his arms, he genuinely wants no other woman. Even the women in his dreams, when he dreams of such things, have gradually come to resemble her more and more each night, until he must look away, embarrassed by his body's swift response when she catches his eye during the day and he recalls how she moves against him and the things she purrs into his ear on the nights he goes to her and the nights he does not.  
  
It can only be a fine thing, he thinks, to find that he desires his wife above other women, but to have so little control over himself that he can scarcely keep away from her for more than a few nights is a poor thing indeed.   
  
No, he will return to his own chambers, deal with his needs alone, and fall into an uneasy sleep, knowing full well that his dreams will be filled with images of last night, and he will wake in much the same state that he suffers now.  
  
Last night, she seemed quite glad to see him, and once they finished and he had risen to dress, she stretched up to kiss him. Merely a brief kiss goodnight, but he had found himself deepening it, and then she had pulled him back into her arms and he had let his hands sink once more into hair of sunset, and his body into the sweet, warm welcome of hers.   
  
Three times, they had repeated this sequence of events, until both were exhausted, drenched in sweat, and it was only the prickle of the heat of her over-warm rooms and the prickle of uncertainty that he would be welcome that prevented him from pulling her back into his arms to rest a while.  
  
This morning, he caught a faint grimace of pain flit across her lovely face as she sat, and after they broke their fast, he cornered her to ensure that all was well.  
  
“Well enough, my lord,” she assured him, biting her lip as she leaned in closer to add, “it is merely the after-effects of the night past.”  
  
There was certainly nothing of displeasure in her words, only a hint of mischief, but if the thought of having his wife when she is unwilling makes him ill, the thought of having her when it will hurt her makes him instantly furious with himself for still being here at all, lurking outside her door.  
  
And yet, his mouth still waters for the taste of her skin, slick with sweat, and he still throbs insistently for the feel of her, tight and wet and unbelievably warm, and for the sixth time, he finds himself returning to her door.  
  
Ned raises his fist to knock, and hesitates, is about to let it drop and turn away when the door swings open so suddenly that he jumps back, startled.  
  
Catelyn watches him from the doorway, frowning her puzzlement.  
  
“My lord? I thought I heard someone pacing out here. Is all well?”  
  
“I—ah, I came to wish you a good night and pleasant dreams.”  
  
She regards him uncertainly, and he can see the struggle that it is not to ask why on earth bidding her good night involved roaming back and forth outside her door for ten minutes. Then her eyes drop to the straining laces of his breeches, and instinctively, much too late, he folds his hands carefully in front of the source of his embarrassment.  
  
“Clearly  _you_  have already had a pleasant dream,” she notes teasingly.  
  
He can feel his face flaming, and turns to go.  
  
“I ought to return to bed. Sleep well.”  
  
“I had a very pleasant dream just now,” she calls softly down the corridor after him. He stops short, barely a dozen paces away, and turns. “I dreamed of last night.”  
  
He blinks rather stupidly at this, not entirely certain if she is asking him to stay, or if she simply wants him to know.  
  
“May I ask, my lord, what you dreamed of?”  
  
Even from here, he can see the trepidation in her eyes, can see that she wishes already that she had not asked.  
  
“You,” he blurts. “I dreamed of you.”  
  
She makes no attempt to hide her delighted smile, a warm pink blush spreading over her cheeks, down her throat, over the tops of her breasts, barely visible through the slight gap in her robe, and she hurries toward him, takes his hand, and tries to tug him back towards her chambers.  
  
“As I am the cause of your discomfort, it only seems right that I offer my assistance in relieving it.”  
  
“But you are hurt,” he protests.  
  
She frowns, lets his hand drop.  
  
“Hurt? What do you mean?”  
  
“You told me that you hurt from last night.”  
  
Realization seems to dawn, and she laughs.  
  
“I am a little sore, but it is far from unpleasant. And the way to get used to something is to do it often, is it not?”  
  
Catelyn starts back towards the open door, casting a look over her shoulder that makes it perfectly clear that he is to follow.  
  
And so for the seventh and last time tonight, Ned hurries down the corridor towards his wife's chamber, follows her inside, and pushes the door firmly shut, with absolutely no intention of leaving for a long while. 


End file.
